


Confessions

by ammydos



Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Paige x Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ammydos/pseuds/ammydos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony says things at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of vague and sleepy, hope it's all right for a first story. I thought I'd bring these two back in honor of the last episode!

Tony says things at night. When they’re cloaked in the darkness, hopelessly lost in the warmth of each other, limbs tangled and lips pressed against bare skin. They are different words than the ones in the daytime. They are sweet rather than bitter, they resonate in her chest, leaving a feeling that she cannot name, cannot express on a canvas or in her sketchbook. Sometimes they are not even spoken, but she feels them, if it’s a kiss on her neck or a brush of his tender fingers over her hipbones. He leaves her raw, eyes half lidded and mouth open slightly, trembling under his tight grasp. 

She lives for that, though, those breathless moments before sleep, when their touches and bodies are languid and his voice is husky and low.

Tony is a skeptical person. He contemplates instead of theorizes, sees stars as incandescent balls of fire instead of things you can wish upon. While she hides herself in the attic, painting and sketching, coaxing pastels and watercolors to do her bidding, he sits in his basement workshop, by the boiler, using his beautiful single mindedness to repair clockwork with careful hands. She wonders if he thinks of the words while he is down there, enveloped in silence, nothing to focus on besides hour and minute hands, pendulums and dials. 

Do those things inspire him? Does he think of love like clockwork? Something that can be repaired with precise movements and gentle fingers, something that ticks on and on and on, keeping people in check and on time in the world. 

That almost makes sense to her. 

"I love you", is for quiet moments at dusk and dawn, when her feet are cold against his and her smile is sweeter than any sunrise or sunset.

"You’re beautiful", is for midnight or one am, when neither of them can sleep and the pressure of his body against hers is dizzying. His dark blue skin is like the sky, and her freckles are like the stars in it. 

And "I’m sorry" is what he says too much, when she’s washing her brushes in the sink after an afternoon painting the sunflowers and daisies on her windowsill, when she is clearing the shattered glass in the kitchen, or when they are mopping up the blood in the basement. When they are healing and forgetting, when the hate begins to dissipate, he will touch her pastel curls and apologize. 

She almost forgives him, then and later at night, but something deep inside her reminds her that the side of him that’s so dependent and often lonely will never last. Paige likes to think that she has morals, and even though she’ll sleep in the same bed as someone who drowned her in the bathtub, she will not trust him. She never even returns the remarks.

Out loud, at least.

Since their first meeting, he has worked his way into almost every one of her works of art. While his confessions cannot be deciphered, his body can, the gears tattooed on his chest, the thin line of red across his cheeks, his galaxy eyes and shark toothed grin. She draws him as a god, as a titan, someone who can hold the universe in the palm of their hand. Paige spills his mind onto an empty canvas, his brain cells are little constellations that course through his Milky Way blood. 

So in a way that might be confessing, and when he finds himself in her sketchbooks he will say that it’s stunning with his sword to her throat. She’ll smile like she does and tell him she put arsenic in the sugar bowl. And they will go on, slashing and pulling and biting in the daytime, scaring their roommates to death and destroying the house. And at night they’ll clean their mess and he’ll go on with his whisperings while she pretends she does not feel the same.


End file.
